


With Dreams, With Drugs, With Waking Nightmares

by PrincessSteve



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A believer in the inherent eroticism of shared trauma, Discussions of death and mental health, Eldritch Powers, Fix-It of Sorts, Gertrude critical, In that I want my boys to find understanding and support, M/M, The Eye has a soft spot for Jon, The Mechanisms Were The Archivist's College Band, but don't worry he gets better, canon character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26205463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessSteve/pseuds/PrincessSteve
Summary: The Eye never gave him up, but without an anchor pulling him back from The End was near to impossible. Gerry had never really considered what the Eye would need to anchor him. He’d never considered how clever it could be – how willing to grasp onto every chance, every opportunity it had.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 106





	With Dreams, With Drugs, With Waking Nightmares

“Are you alright?”

He hesitated a moment, mind catching on the question like an uneven edge on fabric. Snagged, pulling at something further within himself than he was fully aware of. Gerard glanced up at the other man, at The Archivist. He looked worn. Tired and bundled in patched, over-sized clothes like he’d just thrown on whatever fit enough to stay on his body two weeks ago and kept moving since. Maybe that was what had happened. Their conversation had been brief, not really enough to truly get to know a person, but Gerard could clearly mark the differences between this Archivist and the previous. 

Weakness was aberrant for Gertrude. Abhorrent. She had her weaknesses, obviously. But she worked so hard, so tirelessly to hide it that the only weakness he knew for fact was her tendency to over rely on herself. Anything else was more likely to be an act for her benefit than any true shortcoming or need. This man though, this Archivist. He looked…. Desperate. Exhausted. Frail. But none of these undercut him. He didn’t seem pathetic, he just seemed lonely. And more so, he seemed genuine. His question wasn’t an old woman trying to play the part of a concerned Grandmother. He was an exhausted man, seeing another exhausted man and somehow finding it within himself to care.

Funny. The weight of pressure around the man made it clear he’d already progressed far further down the path of the Eye than Gertrude ever had, and yet he seemed far more human than she’d been in the end too. 

The Archivist shifted under his prolonged stare, shifting dark eyes to look unfocused into the corner of the musty back room they were in. Nervous. Shy. Afraid? “I-I sorry- that was probably… ah I suppose you already told me this pains you. I shouldn’t’ve-”

Gerard cut him off, keeping his voice carefully smoothed even as his mind continued to catch and snag on this moment. “I think… I’m ready to go. For now. Hide my page, and when you’re out of here…”

“Burn it.”

“...eventually. Yes. But I want… tonight. Let me out tonight. In private.”

“One last hurrah?”

“Something like it, maybe.”

“Can you…?”

He shrugged, carefully cool under the gaze that had returned to him. The other man nodded to himself with a softly muttered right before meeting his eyes square for the first time in their conversation, more sure in himself in this moment. “I will. Thank you Gerard.”

The snag pulled and he hesitated for only a breath. “Gerry.”

“What?”

“Gerard was what my mum called me,” he laughed, bitter and in this moment just as much a lonely, neglected child as he’d ever been. “I always wanted my friends to call me Gerry.” The implication that he’d never had the chance went unsaid, but the softness in the Archivist’s sharp features showed it was understood. 

“Thank you, Gerry. Uh… I dismiss you.”

True awareness left almost instantly, and with it the pressing, tearing, pulling pain of existence where he didn’t belong. There was a vague, dream of a dream of a dream sort of feeling when he was trapped within his page – more like trying to grasp happenings through fog and alcohol than any true understanding of what was happening around him. Enough for him to know the Archivist left the Hunters, and kept his promise to bring Gerry with him. The details beyond that were vague and disconnected. A vehicle. People. A warm hand running fingertips over the soft leather of his page. Of him. Tracing the new folds of the page and making sure he was still there. Still safe. If safety were even possible in such a place.

The next he truly knew, he came to in a motel. Cheap, but not bottom of the barrel. The carpet had a burn where a previous tenant had perhaps dropped a cigarette and the room smelled dusty and aged, but it was quiet and the bed looked more or less clean. On it sat the Archivist, now wearing an over-sized sweater that had been darned once or twice with mismatching patches. His hair was down, frizzy knotted curls spilling over his shoulders and he looked somehow more exhausted but also softer. Less anxious.

Gerry ignored the sharp tug of the End pulling insistently on him to lean against the beaten desk behind him. It was something of a balancing act as he was less than solid, but gravity also wasn’t a factor like this so really he should be glad he could continue to maintain appearances. 

The nerves hit the Archivist suddenly, shoulders tensing like he was expecting Gerry to greet him with anger. He had been short the first time, but it seemed rather more like the other man was used to being greeted coldly. Gerry cocked his head, pretending nonchalance. “Where are we?”

“Not far from DC. Or the DC airport rather,” A sardonic smirk pulled at the corners of his lips, turning the edges ever so slightly. “In a motel called the Lucky U.” 

Wordlessly Gerry wagged his pierced eyebrows and the other man made a small noise, a harsh breath like a single note in a chuckle, as he looked away to speak. He didn’t seem to meet people’s eyes often. “I wasn’t sure what sort of… wandering you would want to do. So I tried for something in a part of town where they wouldn’t ask questions.”

He hummed, glancing down at himself absently. He looked like himself, just as he had in life. “Do I look like a ghost?”

“You’re the first I’ve ever met.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, I meant in general. If you were going to watch a horror picture, would I be in line to be the monster?”

“I don’t really watch films.”

“Are you always this contrary?”

The other man smiled a little more, petulance bleeding in. “Yes.” 

“Brat,” he accused, laughing despite himself, and was somewhat heartened to see the Archivist laughing with him. 

The moment didn’t last long and an unseen weight pressed back along the other’s shoulders as soon as it ended. Within himself, Gerry felt something tug again as it had earlier, a thread connected to some part of himself he’d not explored in a long while if at all. 

“You look… like a person but a little wrong? Not in an obvious way, I think, as long as no one comes terribly close to you.” 

Humming, Gerry glanced back at his legs stretched in front of him – an imitation of a casual lean. “Should be fine. I don’t really intend to talk to anyone. Too bad I can’t have a drink or cig though.”

The Archivist shrugged, considering him in a quick sweep before returning his gaze to over Gerry’s shoulder. “At least you’re not in the last thing you were wearing…”

That was a point. Shouldn’t he be in the paper thin hospital gown he’d been put in, in the end? It had been so light, so crisp and clean that it had itched horrendously at the edges of his mind even as he was aware he was dying. Maybe that had been a defense mechanism? He’d never been the sort to distract himself from the big issues with petty complaints but maybe when there was nothing to be done for the big issues? To be fair, he remembered very little of the end. Mostly just… moments. An itch along his skin from a hospital gown. The sharp sting in his nose of disinfectants. The turn of Gertrude’s eyes as she watched him. As if she wanted to be sad but had forgotten how to. 

He shook himself from his thoughts. It wasn’t worth spending effort on. Instead he was just going to be happy he was in his combat boots and long coat – looking more himself in death than he had when he’d actually died. 

Gerry plucked at the less than artfully torn collar of his tee, pulling it away from his body in a soft wave of immaterial fabric. “Dead in a Finch shirt though. That’s a little embarrassing.”

The Archivist shrugged loosely, one shoulder rising and falling lazily. “The first time I met Elias I was wearing merch from my college band,” he confided.

His interest peeked, Gerry leaned forward. “You were in a band? What kind of music did you guys play, Jack Johnson?”

The insult came over the Archivist’s face in a sudden flash of expression, all annoyance and affront, and for the first time he seemed to come fully alive. It was like watching a flower bloom in pure annoyance. “Excuse you!”

“It’s not my fault you dress like a grandma,” Gerry countered, hands up in defense even as he laughed.

The Archivist sniffed. “That’s because I’m a professional who doesn’t wear his harness and goggles to work in an academic setting, thank you.” He paused, considering for a moment and then added quickly, “And I was raised by my grandmother so…”

“A harness? So a kinky Jack Johnson then.”

The Archivist paled and then flushed in quick waves of color, outrage lighting his eyes. “Oh you!” He grabbed a lumpy pillow from behind him in one hand, tossing it at Gerry in a smooth motion. The pillow itself passed through him as if he wasn’t there at all, but the intent caught and pulled Gerry in laughter stronger than he could remember in any time recent. It took him in a surge of humor and actual release for what felt like the first time in years. The Archivist did not join him in laughing, but by the time he’d regained enough control over himself to reign it in the other man had clearly given up any actual annoyance. And he was looking at him. 

“All right, all right. What kind of music requires a harness and goggles then?”

The Archivist hesitated, mouth open to explain but words caught. He thought a moment before trying again, “We were a concept band I guess? Story telling with punk and folk and rock? And a machine gun at one point.” 

“And the harness and goggles?” Gerry prompted, surprised despite himself.

The Archivist hesitated again, chuckling to himself a little. “Uh… the concept was that we were immortal time traveling space pirates.”

“Fuck yes.”

That surprised a short but genuine laugh out of the other man. He considered Gerry for a moment before shrugging again, although at what he wasn’t sure. “Well, you officially know more about me than my assistants.”

That didn’t seem right. “Are they new? Replacements?” Tightness returned to his voice, remembering the waves of assistants Gertrude had gone through like they were broken toys. In way, perhaps they were.

The Archivist shook his head. “No, no. Well… one is. The um. We’ve been calling it the NotThem-”

Gerry made a sound of understanding for which the Archivist seemed relieved because he did not continue to explain from there. 

“Uh, but no. I just…”

“Don’t make friends with the underlings?”

The Archivist made a face and snapped, “I was an annoying, unlovable child.” He paused, seemingly catching up to where his mouth had awkwardly left him and knowing he now had to finish the thought. “And I-I… unlovable children do not grow into particularly lovable adults. I’ve learned to stop trying.”

Tension had returned full force to his shoulders, drawing him tight. Curled protectively in on himself. Gerry hesitated for a moment, unsure how to best respond. He’d had his own fucked up issues growing up. For a time he’d even thought maybe he’d been the issue, the unlovable one as the Archivist put it. He’d grown out of the thought, however, and was unsure how to guide one who hadn’t been given the chance. Finally he settled on, “Well, for what it’s worth, I like you. I am an asshole though, so take that with a grain of salt.”

The other man laughed again, although this was far harsher. Far less pleasant to listen to. “You don’t even know my name. I never told you.”

“It’s Jon.”

“How did you?”

Gerry paused. One uncomfortable fact for one uncomfortable fact was fair wasn’t it? They’d shared fucked up childhoods, why not share eldritch powers as well. “You’re not the only one who can Know things,” he finally supplied. “I can’t do as much as an Archivist, of course, but the Eye still gives me bits and pieces. Shit it reckons will be useful.”

“Even though you’re-?”

He shrugged. “I’m still claimed by the Eye. It wants me back. But without a well… a life to anchor me here, it can’t seem to take me back from the End.”

They both fell silent, Jon looking thoughtful. It was a long moment before he seemed to find the words for what he was thinking, and when he did Gerry almost wished he hadn’t. “Would you? Come back given the chance?”

“Why would I?” he countered, frustrated with how his mind caught on the question. How he considered it. Despite everything, despite what Gertrude had done to him, how she’d used him just like his mother… “I’ve given my entire life to the whims of old women who didn’t give a single fuck about me and what I wanted. Who could never just let me fucking rest. Why would I?”

Jon didn’t seem taken aback by his outburst, weathering it patiently like he already knew what was digging at Gerry’s mind. Maybe he did, he was the Archivist after all. Maybe this whole… awkward, fucked up loner get up was just an act built to dig right into the niche between Gerry’s protective instincts and his empathy. Maybe he was more like Gertrude than he let on. But no… no. For all the weight of power that suffocated the room, Jon hadn’t leaned into it yet. He wasn’t taping into the Knowledge, the Awareness. Not on purpose. This Gerry Knew. 

Instead Jon drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping sweater swathed arms around them. “I think… It doesn’t seem like you’ve been given many choices in life.”

“Well that’s the fuckin’ truth,” Gerry answered, trying to hold onto his anger but the full bite of it had already slipped away from him. 

If he noticed, Jon said nothing. Instead he watched Gerry thoughtfully for a moment, seemingly comfortable enough after their conversation to actually dare looking at him. To be fair, Gerry also hadn’t pushed back against Jon Knowing him. “Where would you like me to burn your page?”

“I- What?”

“Where do you want me to burn it? I could… I could do it tonight. After you’re done. Or bring you back with me to England…”

“...giving me a choice in the end?”

“Maybe I’ve gone soft.”

Gerry snorted, though it too lacked the edge he wanted. His anger had burned out so quickly, a flash and then it was gone. Even if it wasn’t intentional, this new Archivist was someone he wanted to protect. Someone he wanted to know. He wondered if this was the Eye trying to take care of its favored Avatar or his own flawed protective instincts. 

“Let me think about it. I’m going out, for a float I guess.”

“You should probably at least pretend to walk.”

“Smart-ass.”

Jon hummed in agreement, and Gerry grinned despite himself. “Try and get some rest while I’m gone, you look more dead than I do.” For a moment the Archivist looked like he was going to argue the point, but he cut him off. “You need to sleep. It’ll have consequences for other people but that doesn’t mean you can just run around sleep deprived and making shit decisions because of it. This way you’ll be in better control of yourself.” 

That seemed to hit at the root of whatever thoughts Jon had on the matter, crystallized or not, because his open mouth snapped shut and he nodded – petulant but definitely agreeing.

Gerry didn’t wait for him to respond more fully, waving a hand over his shoulder as he left the room. He was careful to make sure no one was on the other side of the door to see him float out it, and from there it was a matter of keeping his distance from other people. It was simple enough. Jon had been right about the area they were in. There were people, but it was just this side of the metaphorical train tracks enough that they didn’t care to interact with anyone unnecessary. Especially not someone like him, tall and built and covered in tattoos – even if his tattoos were rather more practical that your typical rough and tumble character’s. To the average person, he looked like someone you wouldn’t want to fuck with. Not that he’d ever tell Jon, but the hardest part was in fact keeping up some approximation of actual living locomotion. The Hunters hadn’t let him out of their sight, never summoning him unless they were alone, so he’d never really had to bother with pretending. Why would you pretend to be alive when everyone you spoke to knew you were dead? He managed it, or at least faked it well enough and was big enough that no one cared to make a stink about it.

It had really only been a few years since he’d died, so nothing drastic had changed about the world, but it had been just long enough that the shows and movies and products advertised had changed. The cars were slightly different, the clothes people wore and the way their makeup was done just slightly left of his center. It was rather like wandering through a foreign country really, or one more foreign to him than America at least. Things just different enough to not be home, but not so different that his mind couldn’t wander. And that was a danger really. He’d been hoping not to think too much on this last wander, had hoped to just clear it. Clear the lingering fear of a final death, maybe let go of the bitter sting of what Gertrude had done to him. 

Instead he thought about Jon. It was stupid. He could acknowledge that Jon needed someone, someone maybe even like him. He needed someone who knew what they were doing, knew what he was going through, and apparently cared enough about him to press for even the most basic of life details. But he couldn’t stay. Every moment like this, a specter from a page, was a constant nagging pull. It reminded him of the migraines he used to get, which he now recognized as warning signs he’d ignored in favor of the greater good or rather whatever task Gertrude had him on. It burned behind his eyes, like hooks caught his mind that pulled and ripped and hurt. Besides. He was of no real good to Jon like this. He could answer questions, sure, but he couldn’t be out of his page long enough to be a real friend and couldn’t influence the world enough to really provide any amount of protection. No small part of him was furious at himself too, for thinking in terms of his own usefulness to other people. Why couldn’t he just do what he wanted? Why couldn’t he just… know what he wanted?

It didn’t really matter what he wanted. He couldn’t go on like this. He couldn’t stay a page in a book. That only left one option.

He ruminated for longer than he’d really planned to, only truly noticing how long he’d been out wandering when he cottoned on to the fact that he’d absentmindedly stopped pretending to walk. Luckily, there was no one left to see him floating along like a lost child’s balloon. It was late enough for the very edges of the horizons to have begun to lighten again, the only cars on the road driven by bleary eyed night workers running on muscle memory and dreams of a familiar bed. There were no birds or animals really to announce the early hours of the morning, this wasn’t the sort of area where wild life flourished. There was just dim blue light, half broken neon signs, and the eerie silence of loneliness in places meant to be crowded. Gerry stopped, looking up into the low hung moon. He felt as if there should be some deeper revelation in this, some understanding and acceptance he’d not had in himself before. Instead he was just aware on a level so deep he’d have hazarded to call it bone deep – if he’d had bones - of just how very, very tired he was. 

Gerry sighed, a needless exhale of breath he’d never taken in, and pulled at the line between himself and his page. He’d not managed to get far from it in the night long walk, maybe a mile in any one direction at most, but taking a more traditional path back to it and the room in which both it and Jon rested seemed like too much effort suddenly. So he pulled, dragging himself closer through instinct alone and when he cared to pay attention again found himself back where he’d started.

The curtains were pulled shut over the outward windows in the room, although they were clearly rather old and cheap, managing to cut out only so much light. It left enough for him to see by, not that the darkness of deep night had been much of a problem for him since his death. On the bed, splayed in a surprisingly wild fling of limbs, was Jon. He’d changed, shedding his too large sweater for a simple tee that still seemed to be at least a size too big and boxers that had ridden high on his thighs in his sleep. Somehow without all the excess fabric to swath him it’d become more apparent just how small the man was. Jon was short and slender like a paper cut, all sharp angles and ill defined edges. His long, gray streaked curls surrounded him like a storm cloud, stark against the white bedding. Like this Gerry could better see the mottled spots of vitiligo across the deeper tones of warm brown, stippled like odd streaks of moonlight. He could be beautiful. In some ways Gerry found him to be, his features were handsome when relaxed in sleep but he was so painfully thin, so plainly mistreated. In sleep Jon’s grip on the thick air of power that surrounded him was even more tenuous; it ebbed and flowed on its own, licking at the edges of his person like a curious puppy. Somehow this didn’t deter his protective instincts, however. Instead it seemed to press, reminding him of just how alone Jon was. He traveled with no one, his assistants knew so little about him that apparently knowing he was in a band in college was more than they knew, and his power was so uncontrolled – so untamed. He had no idea. No idea how to be a person, and even less of an idea how to be the monster he was turning into.

Needlessly, Gerry shed his coat and laid it over the back of the singular chair in the room. As if the placement of ghostly clothing had much gravity in the grand scheme of things. Drawn by instinct he did not understand but likewise did not fight, he moved to the unoccupied half of the bed Jon laid in and carefully working himself into it. It took effort and concentration to not simply move through the bed, rather than laying on it. His body had so little substance anymore, it’d forgotten how to not simply move through everything. He laid there, focusing on not slipping through for a long while so he wouldn’t have to interrogate himself on what exactly he was doing crawling into bed with the Archivist. All his mind seemed willing to supply was tired. He was so, so tired and here was a chance to rest. 

He continued to refuse to consider his motives, even as he turned to face the other man. Jon laid with his back to him, half on his side half his front. It was surprisingly easy to slip into the spaces of the other man’s body, curling insubstantial arms around Jon’s waist and holding him close as much as his current form would allow. This was… weird. It was creepy, cuddling with someone already asleep. It was… warm. Jon was warm in his arms. Still too thin, worryingly so now that Gerry could feel the edges of his spine against his chest but… but he could feel Jon. Could feel the soft warmth of his skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He pressed closer, pressing his face to the back of the other man’s neck through wild, softly sweat dampened curls and found he could smell Jon. The soft scent of sweat and wool, books and the barest hint of something almost like dried herbs. It was the first thing he’d smelled in… years. The first warmth he’d felt in perhaps even longer. Jon himself relaxed into his hold, subconsciously seeking out contact Gerry doubted he’d allow himself while awake. 

He wasn’t sure he could sleep like this, had never been given the time or opportunity to try, but god did he want to. The wave of lethargy and simple desire for rest came over him like a tsunami, the apparent key to his hidden relaxation found somewhere between Jon’s hair covering his face like a downy curtain and the sharp jut of his hips pressed into Gerry’s. He closed his eyes and nuzzled into Jon’s neck, into the smell of his skin. Unbidden, the Archivist’s earlier question rose even as he sunk into something approaching sleep. Would he want to live again? Would he let the Eye bring him back, if he had an anchor? 

He wanted… he wanted this. He wanted to hold onto Jon. To feel his warmth and have his scent fill his senses. He wanted Jon’s curls spread across his face and his back against him. He wanted to take care of him, pull him back from the creeping loneliness. 

Gerry had never really considered what the Eye would need to anchor him. He’d never considered how clever it could be – how willing to grasp onto every chance, every opportunity it had.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks, so it's been a hot minute since I've written huh? As some of ya'll may be aware, I've got a handful of WIPs I fully intend to get back to but oh lordy has it been a year. Without going into horrible detail, suffice it to say this last year has been the hardest of my life and finding the time and motivation to write has been difficult. I fully intend to get back to my BHA fics in time, but I really wanted to ride out the motivation while I had it and the motivation said horror podcast rare pair. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I don't wanna commit to a specific upload schedule with this because I have a very time intensive, demanding job and I really can't promise any specific schedule but I do have this bad boy plotted out several chapters so it should move relatively easily.
> 
> To that end, let's talk about the chapter itself. So I've not been to the more rough and tumble parts of DC (when I did go it was for a work thing and they pointedly kept me to certain neighborhoods) but the feeling of the area I describe here and the motel are based off real places! The Lucky U is a motel off Colfax in Denver, I actually lived there a little while when I was homeless and honestly it was the most ridiculous place on earth. They had this neon sign of a rabbit clearly ripped off from Bugs out front so keep that in mind as a bit of world building. I tend toward more introspective, flowery writing which I think suits the overall tone of TMA, but feedback is always welcomed! Also my headcanon Jon is short, hot, and has vitiligo - particularly because vitiligo can cause premature graying like what Jon is described as having. I'm also fond of ADD and disabled Jon so those will likely make their way into the fic as well.
> 
> Also! The point where Jon asks where Gerry wants to be burned is an intentional nod to Promises To Keep by Caldera. It's an absolutely beautiful and bittersweet fic, if you've not read it before I very much suggest it. A few lines of dialogue from the beginning are taken directly from episode transcripts, or are lightly altered. The title and chapter title are references to Allen Ginsberg's Howl which is an absolutely gorgeous piece of poetry. I can not stand most poetry and I love this piece.


End file.
